CHAPTER I. – ON BRIG ISLAND
The sharp bow of Zenas Daniels’ green and red dory grazed the yellow beach on the west shore of Brig Island, a wooded patch of land lying about a mile off the Maine Shore in the vicinity of Casco Bay. His son Zeb, a lumbering, uncouth-looking lad of about eighteen, with a pronounced squint, leaped from the craft as it was beached, and seized hold of the frayed painter preparatory to dragging her farther up the beach.
In the meantime Zenas himself, brown and hatchetlike of face, and lean of figure – with a tuft of gray whisker on his sharp chin, like an old-fashioned knocker on a mahogany door – gathered up a pile of lobster pots from the stern of the dory and shouldered them. A few lay loose, and those he flung out on the beach.
These last Zeb gathered up, and as his father stepped out of the dory the pair began trudging up the steeply sloping beach, toward the woods which rimmed the islet almost to the water’s edge. All this, seemingly, in defiance of a staring sign which faced them, for on it was printed in letters visible quite a distance off:
PRIVATE PROPERTY
NO TRESPASSING!
Instead, however, of checking the fisherman, it caused old Zenas to break into a harsh laugh as his deep-set, wrinkle-surrounded eyes dwelt for an instant on the inscription. His jaw seemed to set with a snap, and his thin lips formed a narrow, hairlike line as a second later he saw something else. This was a stout wire fence, clearly of recent construction, which extended along the edge of the woods. Apparently it must have encircled the island, for it ran as far as eye could see in either direction.
“Waal, I’ll be dummed-gosh dummed!” snorted Zenas, his thin nostrils dilating angrily.
“Put up a fence now, have they?” he continued. “Waal, if thet ain’t ther beatingest! A passel of city kids ter come hyar and think they kin run things in Casco Bay!”
“I reckon thet fence ain’t goin’ ter hinder us powerful much, dad.”
“Waal, I swan not. Come on, Zeb, look lively with them pots; we’ve got ter git across ther island an’ back ez slippy ez we kin.”
But as father and son resumed their journey, the thick brush suddenly parted and down a narrow path a boyish figure came suddenly into view. The newcomer was a tall, muscular youth, with a face tanned to a healthy brown by constant outdoor life. His clean-cut figure and frank, open countenance formed a striking contrast to Zenas’ crabbed features and the shifty look of his son.
“Where do you intend going?” demanded the boy, as he halted a few paces on the opposite side of the fence.
“You know waal enough, Frank Chester, or whatever yer name is,” growled out Zenas, “we’re goin’ across ther Island ter stow our lobster pots, just as we’ve bin a-doin’ fer years.”
“I’m very sorry. I don’t want to seem unfair, but, as I explained to you the other day, this island is now private property. It was rented from Mr. Dunning of Portland on the express condition that we were not to be interfered with.”
“Land o’ Goshen! So ye think yer kin come hyar an’ run things ter suit yerselves, do yer?”
“We rented the island for that purpose. As I said before, we are all very sorry if it interferes with your convenience; but there’s Woody Island half a mile below, and closer in to Motthaven, too, why won’t that suit you as well?”
“’Cos it won’t. Thet’s why. Brig Island’s bin here a sight longer than you er I, and it’s goin’ ter stay hyar arter we’re gone, too.”
“I don’t quite see what that has to do with it.”
“Waal, I do. We ain’t used ter bein’ dictated to by a passel of kids. I’ve bin usin’ this island fer ten years or more. It suits me first rate, and I propose ter go on using it, and ther ain’t no kids kin stop me,” spoke Zenas stubbornly.
“Well, we shan’t keep you from it for more than a few weeks at most – at least I hope so,” rejoined Frank, with perfect good nature, “after that, although we have leased it for a year, we shall be glad to have you use it in any way you like.”
“I want ter use it right now, I tell yer.”
“Well, you can’t!”
Frank’s control of himself was beginning to ooze away in the face of such mule-like obstinacy.
“Kain’t, eh? We’ll see. You’re alone on the island ter-day, I seen ther other kids go ashore this mornin’. Come on, Zeb, climb over thet fence.”
“Thet’s right, dad,” applauded Zeb, “ef he gives yer any sass jes’ hit him a clip in ther jaw. Reckon that ’ull stop him fer a while.”
As his son spoke Zenas made as if to lay his hand on the top wire of the fence preparatory to scaling it. Frank Chester stepped hastily forward.
“Don’t try to climb that fence!” he warned. His tone was so earnest that, involuntarily, Zenas checked himself.
“Why not?” he demanded.
“Because if you do you are going to get hurt. I give you fair warning.”
“Shucks! ez if a kid could bother me. Come on, Zeb.”
As he called to his son, Zenas clapped his hand on the top wire. Zeb, with a contemptuous grimace at Frank, did the same.
“We’ll show yer – ” Zeb was beginning, when a singular thing happened.
Zenas, with a yell, sprang into the air and, tripping as he came down, alighted in a sprawling heap among the freshly-tarred lobster pots. His gray goatee wagged savagely as he lay there impotently clenching his fists, alternating this performance by vigorously rubbing his elbows. In the meantime his son, giving vent to a no less piercing cry, had executed a backward bound from the fence with as much velocity as if he had been a rubber ball.
